The Strange Adventures of Mr. John Smith in Paris/Chapter 3

HETHER Paris has the most perfect police system in existence because it is the wickedest city in the world, or whether it is the wickedest city in the world because it has the most perfect-well, anyway, they do it differently in Passaic. In Paris the police have succeeded in establishing a cycle of tattletales, an endless chain which makes every man a spy upon his fellows, and the effect is a marvelous, albeit an unpleasant, system of espionage. That is, it is unpleasant when one comes to think of the manner of its existence; for its operation is noiseless, unostentatious. It would not be possible in any other part of the world.

Being blessed with such extraordinary facilities, Paris keeps close watch on the casual stranger, if for no other reason than that it keeps the intricate machinery in motion. Paris is not only always willing, but glad, to lend assistance to the police of any sister city of the earth.

So, when a cable despatch came from a private detective agency in New York asking the Paris police to locate one W. Mandeville Clarke, Paris doffed her hat and went to work. It was not surprising, therefore, that while Mr. John Smith of Passaic was peacefully snoring five flights up in the Maison de Treville, an agent of the police, M. Remi, not without fame in his own calling, should appear in the office down stairs and make certain inquiries of the clerk.

Dark insinuations underlay his manner of questioning, and the beady black eyes of him scared the amiable smile out from under the little clerk’s waxen mustache.

“M. Clarke—W. Mandeville Clarke?” the sleuth questioned.

Yes, the clerk remembered the name; he had heard it earlier in the evening; indeed, it had been written upon a slip of paper and handed to him. then snatched out of his hand—so—and destroyed.

“Ah!” It was a long aspirated expression of relief from M. Remi; the Remi reputation threatened to be crowned with new glory. “Ah! You will be so kind as to go on?”

The little clerk leaned forward dramatically. “I have reason to believe M. Clarke is here in the hotel even now,” he declared. “I will go further, Monsieur. I will say I am positive he is here!”

“Ah!” The cunning black eyes were alive as flames. “Your reasons, Monsieur?”

“He came here, an American, early in the evening, and his conduct was suspicious in the extreme,” the little clerk ran on volubly. “He used strange American words, and a great many of them, although he must have known that I could not understand—I, who speak only the language of my beloved France.”

“I am awaiting details, Monsieur,” remarked M. Remi.

“When first he came he repeated the name W. Mandeville Clarke many times, and finally, Monsieur, I came to know that he was introducing himself. Ah! You must give me credit for the great acumen! I did not fully comprehend this, Monsieur, until finally he wrote the name upon a slip of paper; then, apparently realizing that he had committed a blunder and betrayed himself, he snatched the paper from my hand,—so,—tore it into bits, and cast it away. It must be here even now.”

Together they pounced on the four bits of paper which had been knocking about the floor all night, and patched them together again. It was perfect! W. Mandeville Clarke! Little cries of satisfaction escaped them as the name grew beneath their deft fingers, and when all was done they shook hands mutely, admiringly.

“Then, when he had torn up and cast away this so precious bit of paper,” the clerk went on breathlessly, “he seemed not himself, and again he said many strange words. Then he seized the register—so—and wrote upon it another name.”

“What name?” demanded the sleuth keenly.

“See for yourself, Monsieur.”

He spun the book round on the desk, and M. Remi read therein the large written:

OR a time M. Remi looked, then there came into his beady black eyes a supercilious light, and finally he permitted a sneering smile to curl the corners of his mouth. “It is a strange thing, Monsieur,” he told the little clerk easily, from the depths of his infinite wisdom, “that whenever and wherever an American is arrested or is threatened with arrest he gives his name as John Smith. If there had been any doubt as to this—er—M. Smith’s attempt to hide his true identity, the mere fact that he signed the name John Smith would have tended to dissipate that doubt. A clumsy thing to do, Monsieur! He is a tyro, a bungler!”

“Oh, la la—la la la!” the clerk exclaimed. “A child in the hands of so distinguished a man as M. Remi!”

The sleuth permitted the compliment to pass unheeded and produced from the depths of his cavernous pocket a large notebook. Fascinated, the clerk watched him as he deliberately turned the pages. Then:

“This, M.—er—er—Smith,” the detective inquired with deep meaning,—“this M. Smith—he wears the full, square cut beard?”

The eager anticipation of the clerk’s face was wiped out as by the brush of a painter—a house painter.

“No, Monsieur!” he exclaimed, and all hope had fled. “I must tell you the truth. He is of the clean shave.”

M. Remi did not seem to be particularly cast down at this chilling bit of information; on the contrary the sneering smile came again to his lips, and there was something akin to pity in the depths of his black eyes. “There are razors in the world, eh, Monsieur?” he queried quietly.

“Oui, oui, oui! Magnificent!”

M. Remi took his time about the next question. “His hair is gray? Almost white?”

“His head is like the raven. Monsieur; but,” and the little clerk poked the detective in his distinguished ribs, “there are hair dyes, eh, Monsieur?”

M. Remi admitted it with the strange feeling of having lost something. His voice grew stern, accusing. “He is tall?”

“He is tall, Monsieur—so great tall.”

“Weighing about one hundred and eighty pounds?”

“Oui, Monsieur.”

“Powerful of physique?”

“Of the grand physique.”

M. Remi closed the book and replaced it in his cavernous pocket with an air of finality. “That is all, Monsieur,” he said simply.

“You will arouse him and take him away with you now?” the clerk queried eagerly.

“I have no orders to arrest him, Monsieur,” M. Remi explained. “My orders were only to locate him and keep him under close surveillance.”

Oh, la la! Here was disappointment indeed. The little clerk’s waxen mustache began to droop. “But what has he done, Monsieur?” he demanded excitedly after a moment. “Is he the robber, the murderer? Is it safe to let him remain in the house? You must tell me, Monsieur!”

“He will remain here undisturbed,” M. Remi declared positively. “Who he is and what he is I may not tell you.”

There were four reasons why M. Remi could not tell. The first was he didn’t know, and the other three are of no consequence.

Meanwhile, Mr. John Smith of Passaic, New Jersey, wrapped in the utter innocence of slumber, dreamed lightly of the voice of an angel—an angel from the United States—which came to him vaguely through a babble.